


The Full and Unabridged Tale Of Two Stans

by misqueme



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bill Cipher Is His Own Warning Tag, Family Feels, Gen, Multi, Tags as we go, backstory headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 06:32:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misqueme/pseuds/misqueme
Summary: “I don’t believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at.”– Maya AngelouChapters are not in order, but they’re dated.





	1. Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, 1963

Stanley Pines knew when he was wanted.

His family had an odd way of showing feelings.  
His father, Filbrick Pines, was grand and stoic and stood like a mountain, never easily impressed. If he’d ever wanted Stanley for anything, he’d never shown so.  
His mother, Caryn Pines, was a tough woman. She did little things that showed Stanley that she loved him, like squeeze him from behind, or tickle his feet if he took up too much space on the couch, but she didn’t tell him when she wanted him around. He had learned to figure it out. If her voice got too strained, he would just go to his room and wait out whatever inevitable argument was going on downstairs. If her accent got soft around the edges, that was a good time to jump into her lap and play with her earrings (gently, of course).  
And his brother, Stanford Pines… well, Stanford wasn’t so great at talking about feelings, but Stanley could still tell when his brother needed him because of the way he would hide his hands behind his back and bring his knees up into his chin. Or, sometimes, his breathing would get funny in the middle of the night. And even though he wasn’t crying, Stanley could tell something was wrong and he would climb up onto Stanford’s bed and show him how to breathe correctly. In, and out. Big chest, small chest. 

But this was not one of those times.

Ma kept sending Stanley looks from by the couch, as if worried overhearing this conversation would be bad for him.  
He was pretty sure that wasn’t true, because her accent had drawled soft when she spoke to Stanford, but he could leave anyway. Pa always said to respect Ma’s wishes.

So he had walked all the way up the stairs and opened his door and laid on his bed looking up at the wood above him. And then, because he’d gotten bored, he’d started playing with the bandage on his knee, tugging at it but not ripping it off. Not because he was a baby, or afraid of how pulling it off hurt. He just… preferred to let any bandages he acquired stay on for as long as possible.

He didn’t have to wait much longer, though, because pretty soon he heard the hinges to his bedroom door squeak loudly, and then he felt his bed shake as someone climbed the ladder to reach the top bunk. There was a minute of comfortable silence as Stanley listened to the breathing above him. In, and out. So it couldn't be that bad.

“What’s the word, Sixer?” Stanley grinned up at the bed above him.

A pause.

“Ma says I’m going to go in the extracurricular program this September,” said Stanford’s voice from the ceiling. There were scritching noises as Stanford took off his glasses and stuck them on the wall.

“Yeah, okay,” Stanley agreed, “But what does going into the extracar… the extracal… what does that mean?”

A thud. Stanford had rested his feet on the book pile at the end of his bed (shoeless, of course. No dirt was allowed on his books, as Stanley had learned the hard way).

“Well, it means I’d be doing fourth grade math instead of third grade,” Stanford explained to his brother. “The teachers think I’m… smarter.”

“And about time, too!” Stanley exclaimed from the bottom bunk. Stanford was smarter than all of the kids in his class put together, and then some. At least that was Stanley’s personal opinion.

“Sure, but… I didn’t think they’d let me…” Stanford trailed off sullenly. 

A pause.

“What, is this about your fingers?” Stanley bluntly asked.

The top bunk was silent.

“Look, Ford,” Stanley barreled angrily, “Six fingers shouldn’t mean anything to a math teacher. If anything, you can count higher. You’re special and awesome, and if anyone thinks otherwise, they can have a chat with my fists.”

Stanford laughed. The small children probably couldn’t give any fist conversations with the size of themselves, but the sentiment was appreciated. And Stanley could tell, too.

He knew when he was wanted.

“Thanks, Lee,” Stanford said genuinely. Stanley smiled. Just a thanks from his brother, and he felt like the most worthwhile person in the world.

“You’re staying in the same class, right?” Stanley added worriedly.

“Of course!” Ford’s voice answered. “It’s just extra homework. I’d never leave you alone!”

There were quiet smiles that could be felt. Stanley got up and made his way to the light switch, avoiding the litter of toys as he sent the room into darkness before jumping back into bed.

“G’night, Ford,” Stanley mumbled.

“G’night, Lee,” came the answering murmur.

The young boy on the bottom bunk smiled into his pillow as comfortable silence filled the room. The breathing above him was steady. In, and out.

Stanley knew when he was wanted.


	2. Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, 1963

The sound of seagulls was what Stanford eventually woke up to, blinking his eyes into submission. He rolled over, almost knocking the books off the end of his bed. He’d never been great at waking up, but something about today had him sitting up in bed. He felt along the wall until his fingers met glasses and shoved them onto the bridge of his nose.

He looked around the room, letting his brain slowly wake up. Stanley was still snoring from underneath him. The seagulls were, like every morning, insufferably loud. Stanford blinked a few more times, ridding himself of the sleep in his face. What day was it today?

September first, supplied his brain helpfully. Oh, that was right. Today was the first day of September--

And then Ford nearly fell off his bed. Today was the first day of school. No wonder he had woken up so early, he needed to get ready--

Stanford clambered down the ladder of his bed loudly, searching on the ground of the unnaturally messy room for his socks. There was a groan from the bunk bed and a sudden thud.

“Oww,” Stanley complained from where he was laying on the floor. Stanford ignored him as he found and pulled on his socks, grabbing his jacket from where it was hanging on the door handle and slipping it on.

“Why’re you running around like a chicken with ‘is head cut off?” Stanley asked sleepily, sitting up and rubbing the newly acquired bruise on his head.

“It’s September first today, Stanley,” Ford reminded patiently.

“Oh! School!” Stanley grinned and stood up, reaching for his glasses and overalls. Stanford rolled his eyes. Stanley enjoyed school, but not for the reasons that were normally deemed important. He liked going because he got to talk to people and flirt with the girls. But that was fine, because Ford was always there to help Stanley with his homework.

Stanley was still buckling the top buttons to his overalls when he ran out the door and down the stairs, loudly announcing to the entire house that he was ‘taking his favorite cereal for breakfast, and the rest of the milk better not be gone and that means you Ford’.

Stanford sighed and slung the two backpacks over his small shoulders before tramping down the stairs, avoiding the step that creaked, and setting the packs on the kitchen table so that his brother wouldn’t forget.

“Milk is full of Calcium, Lee,” Stanford impatiently pointed out as Stanley poured his cereal bowl, “I need to have a certain amount of it a day to stay healthy--”

“BLAH BLAH, you’re a nerd, I get it,” Lee interrupted. He sat down heavily at the table, shoving his spoon in his mouth. 

Stanford sat down next to him and made his own bowl of cereal.The milk was still intact when he was done (which he pointed out to his brother smugly) and they both shrugged on their backpacks and headed out the door with two goodbyes to their Ma Caryn, who was standing outside her bedroom wearing sleeping robes and looking very much like she had forgotten what day it was.

It was a good morning.

 

“Stanford Pines?”

“Here!” Came a chipper voice.

“Stan… ley, Pines…?”

“I’m here,” The second twin grinned at his teacher.

The poor woman looked from one identical face to the other (seated right next to each other, no less) and blinked slowly. They wore matching pairs of overalls and flannel shirts. They both had curly brown hair. The only difference between them was that the glasses shape differed, and one twin preferred to hold his hands in his lap whilst the other bounced his arms every which way.

The teacher stared. “And you’re both… named Stan?”

“Ford,” Stanford corrected.

“Lee,” Stanley agreed.

The lady set her paper down and rubbed her temples for a moment. Stanford couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for her. It must be pretty confusing.

A moment later they were having worksheets passed out to them. Multiplication, Stanford recognized. It was like addition, but several times over. He filled out the piece of paper in front of him, listening while the teacher explained how to times the numbers together. He only listened out of respect, though, because once he’d seen his Ma do this while talking about taxes and the concept was pretty simple. When he was done, Ford folded his hands back under his desk and turned to see that Stanley was -disappointingly- folding his worksheet into a paper airplane. He frowned and shook his head, only to jump when he heard his name.

The teacher walked up to him, smiling pleasantly in that false teacher way. Stanford gave her an equally false smile.

“You’re going to be doing fourth grade math, right?” She asked, sounding like she thought the opposite.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ford replied, “All the teachers told me that I should have skipped third grade, but I didn’t want to miss out.” Or leave Lee behind, his brain added.

The teacher’s gaze wandered toward Ford’s brother, who was currently attempting to aim his airplane perfectly into the class fish tank. “Uh-huh,” she drawled condescendingly, obviously thinking that Stanford wasn’t smart enough for that.

Stanford didn’t know how to respond to that, so he kept smiling until the woman looked down at his paper and blinked, her vision seeming to focus.

“Did you… solve all those?” she asked in a surprised voice.

“Yes?” Ford answered nervously. Had he done something wrong? On the first day of school?

“That’s amazing,” the teacher said, picking up his worksheet and reading it over, “You got everything right.” She met his eyes, and something about her smile looked different now.

Stanford learned that his teacher’s name was Mrs. Dayashree, and that she enjoyed teaching long division more than anything else, but never got to because she was in a third grade classroom. He also learned that she had no problem picking Stanley up by the waist and setting him in his seat when he attempted to climb on top of the fish tank (to ‘establish himself as supreme ruler’, he explained) and that she liked to walk by his desk and tell him things about Division and Variables and all sorts of words that helped him on his worksheets, which were different than the ones Stanley got.

Stanford’s first week of school, all in all, was pretty enjoyable. The walks home were one of his favorite parts, however, because that was the time alone he had with his brother. Most of the time they would fill the space with talking of their next adventure, or Ford’s latest favorite book (which Stanley didn’t always understand but listened to anyway), or how Stanley had absolutely nailed that addition problem didn’t Ford see it? And Ford would agree and praise Lee for getting the answer right, and they would laugh. But other times they would just walk in silence. And enjoy the sun on their faces, because they knew from experience it wouldn’t stay too long, and they just walked without talking. Enjoying each others company, and the sound of seagull calls.

The first week of school was great.

 

Ford pushed his glasses further up his nose as he sat on his bed solving the division problem. There was a variable involved, which made it a little bit more difficult than normal, but he appreciated a challenge. Stanley was nowhere to be found, surprisingly. Stanford tapped his pencil against his chin, reflecting that Lee had been unusually quiet for the past two days. He’d ask him what was up later.

There, the answer was 48.86. That wasn’t too hard. The door to his bedroom squeaked as it was pushed open and Stanley looked inside the room, opting to stay in the doorway instead of walk through the toy tornado.

“Hey, Sixer,” Stanley called up, “Ma says it’s time for dinner, and I don’t want to eat by myself.”

‘I don’t want to deal with Ma’s questions and Pa’s stare alone’, Stanford translated in his head.

Ford hummed in response, setting his binder aside in favor of climbing down his ladder. He almost stepped on Stanley’s dart board, which had fallen off the wall yesterday, but managed to avoid it and stumble out the door. Lee took a second before following him, and Stanford realized that his brother wasn’t wearing his glasses. Ford rolled his eyes. Stanley normally always remembered where his glasses were, but if his laziness started to extend to eyeware, Ford would just have to remind him.

They both trudged down the stairs until they got to the table. As always on Friday nights, both Ma and Pa were seated at the table, although Filbrick’s face was hidden behind a newspaper. The boys seated themselves next to each other. Ford wordlessly passed his brother the salt, and Stanley began to shake it over his chicken.

They sat in awkward silence for several minutes until Caryn cleared her throat.

“So, boys,” Ma asked, “How’s school been treatin’ ya?”

“Well, The teacher’s very agreeable,” Stanford started, taking a bite of chicken.

“She gave Ford fourth grade math homework, even though it’s Friday,” Stanley added, moving his broccoli to Stanford’s plate.

“Good.” 

Both boys jumped at Filbrick’s voice. Pa didn’t acknowledge it, or even look up from his paper. He had said his piece.

Stanford wilted a little bit, because the implication was heavy in the air: Pa was not impressed. He never was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

Stanford felt his brothers’ knee brush against his. Stanley continued to stare ahead and talk to Ma about the frog he had caught in the rainwater drain, but he silently conforted his brother anyway. Ford smiled, and ate the broccoli on his plate.

“That’s my little spirit,” Caryn smiled, moving one hand up to her beehive hairdo that was coming undone at the end of the day. She looked at Ford. “Is the homework too much, sweetie?”

Stanford shook his head. “No, Ma. I stay in at recess most days in order to do more work, actually. It’s just the right amount.”

“I’m glad,” she praised.

“Hey, Ma?” Stanley asked, stabbing his chicken and than shoving it in his mouth, “do ya fink-”

“Swallow your food, Stanley,” Caryn interrupted. Lee paused for twenty seconds before speaking again.

“Do you think I could go to school without glasses?”

Stanford looked at his brother in surprise, but Stanley conintued to stare straight ahead. Caryn paused and seemed to think about it.

“Well,” She started, “You’re slightly far-sighted, so I suppose it wouldn’t do too much harm. You’d have a bit of an issue reading, though,” she added, standing up. “And now I think I’m going to hit the hay. It’s been a long day of unsatisfied customers.” Caryn sighed, and Ford winced, remembering her job as a Phone psychic and how hard it was for her to keep customers.

The boys left the table immediately after her, not wanting to be alone with their father, who had not left his spot at the table.

When Lee had gotten pajamas on and climbed into bed, Ford sat down next to him.

“What’s wrong with your glasses?” Stanford asked seriously. Stanley winced, looking like he had been expecting this. 

“Well, uh…” He began to wring his hands. “I just don’t want to wear them. It’s nothing big.”

Ford did not buy this at all. He crossed his arms and frowned.

“Look, it isn’t important,” Lee insisted, getting under the covers and rolling over, “You need to go to sleep, Poindexter.”

Stanford sighed and got off the bed, climbing up to his own space. If Stanley didn’t want to talk about it, that was his issue. He took off his glasses and set them on the wall.

“G’night, Lee,” He said.

“G’night, Ford,” Stanley responded on cue.

Stanford fell asleep that night feeling slightly disgruntled. 

 

The next Monday Stanley went to school with his glasses, but only because Ford asked him to.

They went through the morning routine as usual, but this time Ford kept careful eye on his brother. Lee didn’t seem to be doing anything too strange. In fact, he was just as cheerful as always.  
Recess came up, and Stanford decided to go outside. Vitamin D was important, after all, and he wanted to watch Stanley.

When he followed his brother out behind the school, Stanley looked at him with surprise.

“You probably shouldn’t come with me today,” he said. Ford blinked, shocked. Before now Lee always complained about him staying inside.

“I’m sticking with you,” Stanford said firmly.

Stanley wrung his hands. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, bro. I’d rather you stay inside.”

Ford set his face in what he hoped was a determined expression. Lee signed.

“Yo, Pines!” Called a voice. Stanley winced.

Stanford and Stanley turned around with matching expressions.

A boy Ford didn’t know walked up, followed by two other boys, and looked between them. “Wait, there’s two of you now?”

On habit, the twins held up their hands to show the difference. The kid wrinkled up his nose.

“Okay, that’s pretty messed up.” 

“Get lost, Crampelter,” Lee growled.

Ford looked between his brother and the taller kid with a frown.

“What, and miss out on an opportunity to give you some helpful advice?” The tall kid walked a little closer then Stanford thought was necessary and glared in Lees’ face. “For one thing, Pines… or, Pines without the defect… you look like a helpless nerd. And you probably won’t last too long in society if you can’t see,” The bully tutted. Stanley immediately adjusted his glasses self-consciously. The two boys shadowing them laughed.

Campelter smirked at this. “Survival of the fittest, loser.” Than his gaze shifted to Ford. “And you… you disgust me.You’re a freak of nature, loser. Don’t let me ever see those fingers again.”

Stanford hid his hands behind his back, wilting. His fingers were his biggest insecurity. He wasn’t sure he could even respond if--

Whump. 

Crampelter winced, then pretended he hadn’t, and inspected his shin.

“Oh ho, boy,” The bully growled, turning to Stanley, who was still standing in a defensive position, “You’re gonna regret kicking me.”

He shoved Stanley's chest, causing the boy to fall to the concrete backwards on his elbows. Lee cried out in surprise and pain. Crampelter and his two friends laughed, walking away with high fives.

Ford ran over and helped his brother up, checking his elbows to see that they were scraped up. Stanley made a noise of pain in his throat and limped slightly in the direction of the schoolhouse. 

Stanford got two bandaids from Mrs. Dayashree (on the pretense that his brother had fallen on accident) and stuck them on Lee, who grit his teeth but other than that didn’t say anything.

“Benjamin Crampelter.” Stanley finally mentioned, once they were back inside. Ford nodded, realizing there was nothing else to say. There was nothing else to do.

The next day, Stanley came to school without his glasses. 

Stanford didn’t comment on it.


	3. Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, 1963

They had many places that they liked to hang out, including the schoolhouse and the diner next door and their bedroom.   
But their very favorite place was the beach, where they traveled every day in search of adventure.

And, Stanley’s favorite spot, the swingset by the dock. This is where they came to tell eachother secrets where only the gulls could hear, or complain about schoolwork, or just sit and watch the sun make its daily journey across the sky.

They had less time for this, of course, once they were in school again, but the weekends were always there, open spaces filled with opportunity.

“I think Mrs. Dayashree’s nice,” Ford was saying, swinging forwards a little bit so that Stanley couldn’t see his face.

Stanley made an annoyed sound. Ford always thought that the teachers were nice. Although, he had to admit, Mrs. Dayashree was probably one of the better ones they’d had, in all his three years of experience. 

“There’s a lot of homework, though,” Lee complained, kicking his feet. Still just a little too short to touch the ground.

“Stanley, you have basically no homework,” Stanford pointed out with a frown. 

Lee sighed. “Yes, but you do. It keeps you too busy.” He kicked at the sand again, not meeting his brother’s eyes.

“Hey,” Ford said, and Stanley stopped swinging so he could look at him, “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. And most of my homework is optional. If you nee-- if you’d like to hang out more, just say something.”

Lee smiled at his brother. Somehow, Ford always knew just what to say to cheer him up.

“Thanks, Sixer,” he said, even though he knew that he would never call his brother away from the projects to come hang out with him. He couldn’t get in the way of his brother’s happiness. “I will.”

 

“Didja hear? Didja hear?” Stanley yelled excitedly as he threw open the bedroom door.

“Did I hear what, Stanley?” Ford answered calmly from the top of the bunk bed. 

Lee jumped over the mask and game board on the floor and stumbled to the ladder. He climbed up until his grinning head was poking above the wood at Stanford.

“The new MothGad comes out next month!”

“Really?” Stanford lowered his book on astronomy and Lee took this as an invitation to go on. 

“Yeah! I couldn’t believe it, a new MothGad in December! But it’s coming out just before the holidays so we can ask for tickets to celebrate!” Stanley grinned at his brother. Unlike most of the Sci-Fi movies they watched, MothGad was one Ford actually enjoyed. He said it had to do with the movie’s ‘storyline and science experiments actually falling on a line of believability’, or something.

“I don’t think Ma and Pa will get us movie tickets for a holiday present,” Stanford pointed out.

“Aw, don’t knock the idea ‘till you try it at least three times!” Stanley grinned, determined to get his brother on board. “What’s the worst that could happen, they say no?”

Ford sighed and rolled his eyes, setting the book on the pile. “Yes, if they found out you haven’t finished your homework.” He pointed to the worksheets on the side table that had about one problem finished.

Lee crunched up his shoulders, looking at the papers in guilt. “It’s… its kinda confusing, though,” he muttered, slightly ashamed. Ford did twice as much work every day, he shouldn’t be confused.

Stanford immediately scooted over to him and set a six-fingered hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. “If you need help, just ask. I’m always here.”

“Okay,” Stanley lied. “I will.”

Ford smiled. “Good, because our first session starts now.”

“Wait, what?” Stanley asked as his brother pushed past him and climbed down the bed, ignoring the last few bars and just jumping instead.

“I’m going to help you with your homework. It’s the cross-multiplication strategy you’re having trouble with, right?”

“I mean... yes, but—” Lee started to protest as he followed, but Stanford shushed him and made him sit in the bottom bunk.

“Have a seat.” 

A clipboard with the homework clipped on it was shoved into Stanley’s arms, along with a pencil.

Lee opened his mouth again, but nothing came out as Ford sat down next to him and pointed at things on the paper, explaining numbers in a voice that left zero room for argument.

Within an hour, all of Stanley’s homework had been finished. Ford went over it when he was done, and while some of the two-digit ones had been wrong, Stanford quickly explained to his brother how to make them right.

Stanley had never gone to school feeling more confident then he did the next morning.

 

 

“Ta-da!” Lee excitedly yelled, pouring out change into the bedspread. He shook the pig bank a few times just to make sure all the pennies were out.  
Stanford frowned and counted up the money.

“That’s one dollar and forty cents,” Ford finally finished, setting down his organized pile of quarters. “That’s not enough for both of us to go.”

Stanley huffed in frustration, tapping his fingers together. “Can we sell our apartment?”

“No, we can’t sell our apartment,” Ford retorted, shoving his brother so that Lee fell over onto the pillows, “We need more money.”

Both boys contemplated this for a moment before Stanley sat up and grinned at Stanford.

“I bet we can find coins in the gutter and around the house!”

“Twenty cents’ worth?” Ford questioned dubiously.

“Oh, you bet!”

They searched in the couch cushions, behind the counter, in dusty corners of their father’s pawn shop, next to Ma’s telephone, and Stanley checked the rainwater drains on the street. In the end, both of them looked their collective profit: two pennies, a quarter, and three nickels.

“This is forty-two cents!” Stanford exclaimed, adding the cash to the pile.

“Yes!” Lee fist-pumped energetically, “we can go to the movies with money to spare!”

They smiled at each other.

That night’s showing of MothGad was viewed triumphantly by two third graders who could do things their own way. Ford especially found it entertaining, because of the abnormal amount of fingers that the main alien character had. 

It was a good night.

 

 

Stanley waved his bucket of popcorn around with an excited grin. 

“And then all the dudes were like ‘aaaaa, my face is being eaten alive’!” He bent his knees, lowering himself to the ground with a noise that was supposed to be brutal agony.

Stanford laughed. That was one of the most wonderful sounds in the world, Lee reflected from the floor. Brothers enjoying themselves.

“C’mon,” Ford quipped, pulling Stanley’s outstretched hand up from the ground. “Ma will lose her hair if we’re home late.”

The sun had set already, it being winter, and Lee’s teeth were clicking in his mouth more then he’d like to admit, so he nodded in agreement. Once he’d dusted off his jeans and set off onto the sidewalk, Ford filled the frosty air with comments on the MothGad creature and the six-fingered alien that were honestly less interesting than punches, but Lee listened to be polite. They rounded the corner and suddenly-- nearly literally-- ran into Benjamin Crampelter.

“Well well. What’s this?” Crampelter sneered.

“Nobody important,” Lee responded, grabbing the strap of his brother’s overalls in order to pull Ford along faster.

“Darn right,” Crampelter breathed in Stanley’s face, moving in front of him as he tried to pass.  
“You’ll never be anything important, Pines. Remember that. You and your dumb nerd face and your dumb nerd freak brother.”

“Goodbye,” Lee quickly answered, fleeing the scene with Stanford in tow. 

The boys silently continued the rest of the walk to Pines Pawns.

“I shouldn’t’ve worn ‘em,” Stanley whispered to himself as the door came into view.

Ford looked up from the floor quizzically. Lee raised one hand up to his face, where his glasses had been replaced on the bridge of his nose. Stanford flinched. 

“You had to, to see the movie…” Ford started and then trailed off.

Lee had forgotten all about the cold, his hands shoved in his pockets. 

As they passed Hot Belgian Waffles, Ford suddenly made an odd sound and grabbed Lee’s shoulder.

“You know what?” He said, with a fierce look in his brown eyes. “I think you look fine with your glasses, and Crampelter can go choke on grapes.”

Lee snorted with laughter, doubling over and smiling at his brother.

“Thanks, Sixer. If I wasn’t such a coward I would go face Crampelter.”

Ford pat him on the back. “Staying away from the bully is probably the best thing we can do.”

Stanley blew a long breath out of his mouth as he opened the door to his father’s pawn shop.

“All we can do.”


	4. Gravity Falls, Oregon, 1982

Stanley Pines tramped through the snow before he reached the house, pulling off his hood to let the cold flakes into his hair. They woke him up and grounded him, and he didn’t need to hide his face now that he was out in the woods.

The house itself was... well, odd. It was dark and secluded like no one ever went in, and several ‘keep out’ and ‘danger’ signs were standing at the drive.

Stan walked up to the porch, taking careful steps onto the wood. Something about the floor plan of this cabin looked familiar... perhaps it reminded him of one of the hotels he’d stayed in over the years?  
Stan took a deep breath. He’d brushed his hair, he’d shaved, he’d gotten his favorite and nicest winter jacket out to wear.

His glove hovered over the door for a moment.

“You haven’t seen your brother in ten years,” he whispered to himself. “It’s fine. He’s family... he won’t bite.”

And so, having come to a conclusion, Stanley rapped on the front door.

For a second, he heard nothing, and wondered if perhaps no one was home, or worse— this was the wrong house entirely.

Until the door flew open and a crossbow was in his face.

“Who is it?” shouted a slightly familiar voice, “HAVE YOU COME TO STEAL MY EYES?!”

Stan stood on the porch, still leaning back away from the weapon Ford was holding at him.

“Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome.”

“Stanley,” Stanford breathed in a relieved voice, and recognition flashed in his gaze. He lowered the crossbow. “Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”

“Eh, hello to you, too, pal,” Stan greeted dryly. He shouted in alarm as Ford grabbed his jacket and pulled him through the doorway, shining a flashlight into his eyes. Stan’s pupils dilated, trying to escape the light. He shoved his brother off his jacket.

“Ah! Hey! What is this?” Stan snapped, blinking fiercely.

“I’m sorry, I just had to make sure you weren’t...” Ford trailed off, his eyes darting around. “Uh, it’s nothing. Come in, come in.” He gestured for Stanley to follow him into the house, grabbing and tugging at the neck of his lab coat.

Stan followed after a moment. He was trying not to notice or care (it was hard to deny caring after running here so quickly), but something about Ford seemed... off. Once he had lowered the crossbow, and Stan had gotten a good look at his face, what he had seen had shocked him.  
Ford’s hair was disheveled and messy, going into his face. The warm brown eyes that had always flashed with excitement were dull, red, and bagged with some of the world’s darkest circles. It was evident that Ford hadn’t shaved in a while, either. Overall, he just seemed to be... falling apart.

And that scared Stanley. His brother had never, ever let himself gone completely to waste in the years that he’d known him. And despite everything, Stan was worried.

“Uh, are you going to explain what’s going on, here?” Stan asked, stepping with wonder into his brothers’ parlor. It was filled to the brim with research notes, artifacts, and nerdy gadgets. All of the lights were off, too, as if Ford had been trying to simulate nighttime. “You’re acting like Mom after her tenth cup of coffee.”

It was true. Stanford’s hands, eyes, knees, and general appearance seemed pretty jittery. Actually, from the smell of him, he had been overdosing on coffee lately. Which didn’t seem healthy.

Stanford picked up an odd book in his hands, walking over to Stan with a desperate look.

“Listen, there isn't much time,” he started, his voice shaking slightly as he crossed the room. “I've made huge mistakes and I don't know who I can trust anymore,” Ford spotted the fake skeleton in the room looking in his direction and reached out six fingers to turn its head the other way.

Stanley felt sick. Ford was obviously having some sort of panic attack, and without anyone out here (—without Stan—) to help him, he was descending into madness.

Something in his chest stirred, and Stan reached out to lay one hand on his brothers’ back as he passed. Ford flinched and froze, but didn’t move away at the contact.

“Hey, Uh, easy there,” Stanley said softly, “let’s talk this through, okay?”

Ford breathed for a minute, then turned around to face Stanley.

“I have something to show you,” he finally said, “something you won’t believe.” With the last word, he waved his hand dramatically in Stan’s face.

Stan rolled his eyes. “Look, I’ve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

———————————————-

There was nothing about this thing in front of him that he understood. Which he vocalized plainly.

Stanford walked in front of him towards the giant machine, his natural scientist persona overriding the anxiety for a minute.

“It's a trans-universal gateway... a punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension,” Ford explained as if that were something entirely normal, “I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe. But it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction,” here his voice started to shake again, and Stan resisted the urge to run up to him.  
Ford turned around and held up the book with the odd symbol on it.

“That's why I shut it down and hid my journals, which explained how to operate it. There's only one journal left. And you are the only person I can trust to take it.”

He handed the book to Stanley, pain and wary hope in his eyes.

“I have something to ask of you,” Ford started quietly. “Remember our plans to sail around the world, on a boat?”

For a beautiful, wonderful second, Stanley began to smile. A small one, an accidental quirk, but still his first smile in years. Could Ford actually be suggesting what he thought? Were they about to leave the past behind them, finally?

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can!” Stanford turned around, his hands folding behind his back. “To the ends of the earth! Bury it where no one can find it!”

And just like that, the hope was gone. Wiped away. Erased.

Changed into... anger.

“That’s it?” Stan blurted, startling his brother, but he really didn’t care anymore. Unlike anytime before, he just really. Did not. Care.

“You finally want to see me after ten years, and it’s to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!” His voice rose, regaining its roughness. In his right mind, he wouldn’t yell at his brother. He would never yell at his brother having a panic attack.

But this just felt like betrayal. And it hurt.

Ford initially looked shocked, but it quickly turned into retaliation.

“Stanley, you have no idea what I’m up against! What I’ve been through!” Ford waved his hands.

Stan’s frown grew deeper. “No, no. You don't understand what I've been through!” He brought up one hand and began to count on it, “I've been to prison in three different countries! I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! You think you've got problems? I've got a mullet, Stanford!” Stan gestured wildly to the back of his head.

“Meanwhile, where have you been? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods! Selfishly hoarding your college money, because you only care about yourself.”  
Stan jabbed his fingers into Fords chest, ignoring how wrong it felt to be insulting his brother.  
Everything he was saying was true.

Fords’ shocked face became angry, and he backed away.

“I'm selfish? I'm selfish, Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school?!” Ford threw his hands up in the air. “I'm giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won't even listen!”

Stan clenched his teeth. Of course, of course it would always come back to this. Stan’s the screw-up, Ford’s the hero. He never did anything, Dad had made that clear when he was kicked out.

“Well, listen to this,” Stan spat, holding up the book Stanford had handed him, “You want me to get rid of this? Fine, I’ll get rid of it right now.” And with the air of a madman, he pulled one of the spare lighters out of his pocket and turned it on.

Ford’s sunken eyes grew wide.

“No!” He shouted, latching his hands onto the journal. “You don’t understand!” 

Stan wrestled it out of his brothers grip, holding up to the fire.

“You said I could have it, so I’ll do what I want with it!” Stanley snarled spitefully.

“My research!” Stanford cried, before quite literally leaping onto Stan, grabbing his waist and tackling him to the floor.

The journal bounced out of his grip, ending up on the floor near the room before the portal room with all of the control panels. Ford scrambled up to snatch it, but Stan grabbed his foot and tripped him.

Stan stood, got ahold of the book, and began to run into the control room. Ford followed him.

“Stanley, give it back!”

Ford grabbed Stanley’s shoulders, physically shoving him down onto the wall. Stan’s weight flipped a few of the switches, but neither of them payed much attention.

“If you want it back, you’re gonna have to try harder than that!” Stan growled, wrestling out of his brothers’ hold and slamming Ford onto the ground near the doorway.

There was a slight wirring sound as the machine in the next room over came to life.

“You left me behind, you jerk! It was supposed to be us forever,” he tried to force Ford down while regaining grip on the journal, “you ruined my life!”

“You ruined your own life!” Ford snapped, his boot coming up to slam Stanley into the wall.  
Straight into the fiery activation light.

For a moment, all Stan knew was pain. He could tell that he screamed, though, before falling to the ground. After a second, he registered that the pain was all in his right shoulder. The heat of the symbol had ripped straight through his jacket, branding him.

Ford gaped, holding his now won book to his chest. He was horrified, and his anger was gone in the face of Stanley’s injury.

“Stanley!” He exclaimed, fearful, “oh my gosh, I’m so sorry; are you alrigh—“

Oomf.

Ford didn’t finish his sentence, punched in the face by his brother, and stumbled backward, back into the portal room.

“Some brother you turned out to be,” Stan muttered quietly as he walked out of the control room, his left hand holding his shoulder as he limped. The symbol was still glowing on his back. “You care more about your dumb mysteries than your family? Well then YOU CAN HAVE 'EM,” and he shoved Fords’ chest, and the book, straight over the line of yellow safety tape on the floor.

Ford crossed the line, then looked behind himself at the portal in fear as his feet lost contact with the ground.

Stan stared after him, the light from the machine in his eyes, and the anger melted off of his face like candle wax. 

And it was replaced with fear.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, what's going on?” Stan took several steps closer, reaching out his arms for Ford as the scientist’s coat and self was pulled towards the vortex, “Hey, hey, Stanford—“

“Stanley! Stanley, help me!” Ford shouted in terror, flailing his arms around to no avail as the end of his lab coat reached the light.

“Oh no, oh no, what do I do?” Stan attempted to run to his brother, horror clouding his gaze. 

“Stanley! Stanley, do something!” Stanford Pines screamed, his backside disappearing into the vortex. His desperate eyes shot one last look at his brother. “STANLEY!” And Ford flung the book out of the traction, into Stan’s arms, as with one final yell, he was gone-

The portal blasted into light, the force throwing Stan and the book away from the yellow line. When the light faded, all that was left was an empty machine.   
Every fuel reading dropped to zero.

Stan pushed himself up from the floor as a pair of glasses landed on the floor in front of him with a resounding click.

“Oh, no—“ he whispered, before forcing himself to his feet. His shoulder burned, his skin torn, as he ran and almost dropped onto the deactivated portal. 

“Oh no, oh no oh no no—“ his voice, raising, faster and faster— or was that his heartbeat?— louder still until his throat cried out in pain— no, that was his voice.   
He slammed his fists on the metal, screaming into the empty space between the machine and the wall. 

He turned around to spot the lever on the ground. It had been accidentally pushed by Ford in the fight, maybe—

Stanley ran over to it, pulled on in, dug his ratty shoes into the cement and threw his entire weight into the lever. It didn’t budge.

“No, no,” he cried out, “I just got him back, I can’t lose him again!” He smashed his fists on the large triangle once more.

“STANFORD!”


	5. The Non-Existant Dimension, Never

Stanford braved his legs for impact as he landed hard on the rock ground. He managed not to break anything and rolled upright, immediately ducking under a nearby bush for cover. Forests were rare in the multiverse, and cover even more so. He would take what he got.

Ford waited with baited breath for the sound of someone following him, but nothing happened for a very long time. Even after Ford was sure that no one was out there, he waited two more hours. Just to make sure it wasn’t a trap.

Eventually Ford’s ligaments began to scream from holding the position for so long and he was forced to move. Little by little, he inches his way out until he was standing in the wood.

It was a reasonably normal-looking forest, considering this was not his universe, and he walked carefully through, observing the thick trees and plants.

Very abruptly, the forest ended. Ford froze, looking across at the landscape. The trees didn’t exist anymore beyond this point. Instead, the ground dipped down into a valley... and a town.

Towns could be very good or very bad, based on the inhabitants. Stanford decided to try his luck with this one when he saw that at least one farm was in the area, and remembered that he hadn’t eaten in three days.

The hill down to the valley was steep, and had no cover, so Ford just slid-ran down as fast as he could until he reached the back of the building that was closest to the woods.

He had observed from his vantage point that there were two main parts of this civilization: stores or common places, and houses. He was on the market side. 

He inched around the side of the building that looked as if it were made of old mud-brick, trying to not look sneaky but also not be seen. As he listened into the place he realized that it was a tavern of sorts.

Ford wrung his hands together, shoving his right thumb in between each of his six left fingers. Taverns were dangerous, because wanted posters were up often (many with his face), but Ford was also well aware that humans required nutrition in order to function correctly, and that this may be the last welcome feeding establishment he would see in a month.

He made up his mind to take his chances and walked in briskly, the bell at the door ringing. Fortunately, the bar seemed to be quite busy and no one noticed him come in. Stanford’s eyes darted to the walls in order to check for posters of himself, but to his surprise— there weren’t any. Not only that, but there weren’t any posters at all. In fact, as Ford’s eyes ran over the place, he realized that there were no paintings, no writings, no form of anything that hinted at intelligent life. There wasn’t even a menu at the main counter where he sat down.

A lady came to assist him as soon as he sat down, which only heightened his nervousness. Ford reminded himself internally that he couldn’t be recognized by anyone here. He steeled himself to look confident as he rubbed his left forefinger.

“What would you like?” She asked. Stanford sighed with relief that her voice was easily understandable. He straightened up, preparing to act his part.

“I’ll have the usual mammal omnivorous meal, ma’am.”

The lady squinted at him, and her entire, slightly-troll-like form flickered. Ford blinked.

“So would that be a salad?”

“Um...” Ford scratched at his lengthening sideburns, “yes, please.”

The troll lady walked away, prompting Ford to wonder what caused her to temporarily leave the plane of existence. It wasn’t too unusual, given everything he’d seen in his travels, but it was different.  
Possibly it was a form of expression?

The waitress returned with something that looked very similar to earth salad, and Ford dug into it gratefully. He hadn’t had a real meal in a very long time, he realized.

As he was eating, he let his gaze wander around the bar. Most of the occupants were creatures that looked like trolls crossed with humans, while one or two looked like small furry animals. He didn’t get a closer look at any of those ones, as they were mostly on the floor and blocked by the trolls. And indeed, all of the trolls appeared to flicker occasionally. Like candles, or holograms.

As he was finishing up his salad, the stool next to him at the counter pulled out and scared him nearly out of his wits. He realized a minute later that one of the smaller, furrier creatures had actually caused this, and was now climbing up to sit on top of it. He considered leaving, but he was sort of fascinated by the animals’ odd anatomy.

It had a crouch stance similar to that of a goblin, but hair sort of like human hair, and coloring like a loin. It wore a simple potato sack leotard. Its fur was short and sort of spiky-looking, and a lion like tail wrapped around the leg of the stool. The thing had powerful hind legs sort of like a dinosaur (but with fur), and dragon-like claws on all four limbs. Its dark, slanted eyes looked up to meet his, and Ford glanced away quickly, pretending to stare into his salad bowl.

The troll lady manning the counter saw the creature grab a stool, and with a face of utter disgust, left to the kitchen.

said the creature, and Ford jumped again.

The voice was something entirely new. He heard the voice in the air— sort of a rough, fast paced Russian-like language— but he also heard it in his head. An English version, with a clear feminine voice. It was as if two different people were talking at the same time, even though Ford knew it was the same person.

“A-afternoon,” Stanford responded, shoving his last few bites of salad into his mouth.

she asked, and even without looking Ford could tell she was examining his heavy coat and many pockets.

“...yes,” he admitted, trying to decide whether or not to leave.

 

She was asking for his name. Ford stared ahead. To tell, or not to? Well, it’s not as if she would know who he was. His thumb began to rhythmically tap the counter.

“Stanford Pines.”

the creature hummed, two voices in one. 

“Oh yeah?” Ford asked, cleaning up his salad so he could be done with this conversation sooner. “What’s your name?”

 

Ford almost choked. “I’m sorry, how do you say that?”

, she repeated again, staring at him seriously with those penetrating eyes. Ford shivered and left money on the counter for the troll, before standing up and pushing in his stool.

“Well, it was nice to meet you. Goodbye!”

He walked out the door, tugging self-consciously on his coat. In all honesty, he’d had worse conversations. (Certain aliens pointing guns to his head came to mind). But the conversation he’d just had with... that thing... has left him deeply unsettled, as if his inner mind had been probed.

She had a sort of translation tech, obviously. Something that allowed him to hear an English interpretation of her words in his head. And for her to understand English.   
Or perhaps it wasn’t a tech, but an... ability, of some sort.

Ford huffed quietly to himself. It didn’t do to dwell on such things, anyway. He needed to take inventory, and survey the dimension while he had the chance.

He was going to write one heck of a journal entry if he got home.

The streets were crowded as he got closer to the rural area of the town. Troll-people traded things at stands and had friendly conversation together. 

As he got closer, though, he realized that the conversations that were being had weren’t quite friendly. They certainly weren’t rude— they were just... uncaring. 

“Excuse me,” he asked, bracing himself for a second social interaction. The troll he had summoned turned around with a raised eyebrow.

“You don’t look from aroun’ ‘ere.”

“I’m— I’m not, really,” Ford agreed, reaching up to straighten his tie. Except only a shriveled piece of fabric was left, so he switched to wringing his hands behind his back. “I’m wondering what you sell here? What types of food?”

The troll blinked slowly and flickered like candlelight. He then began to gesture to his cart.

“We’ve got plenty of produce items... lettuce, fruit, some potatoes...” the troll’s glassy eyes glanced in his direction. “If you prefer meat, I won’t ‘ave any o’ that for ‘nother two moon cycles.”

“Oh, no, that’s- it’s quite alright,” Ford vigorously rubbed his wrists behind him. “I’ll take— what kind of money do you accept?” He normally just took or hunted his food, but it seemed wrong to steal from such a bored sounding and non-aggressive creature.

The troll shrugged, nearly yawning. “Whatever you ‘ave, I’m willing to trade.”

“Um...” Stanford shifted through his pockets, frowning. “I keep some paper in case I need to record anything—“

“Did you say paper?” The troll flickered away and back again. His eyes had grown large and interested.

“Well, yes,” Ford paused. He was just going to offer whatever he had that wasn’t dangerous and important— he hadn’t expected paper to be a rarity.

“Are you giving away rips?” The creature leaned forward.

Ford pulled three sheets of paper out of his pocket. “Um, sure.” He held the product out to the creature.

The troll blinked several times, mouth growing wide. He disappeared and reappeared more intensely for a second. “Three- three whole slices— thank you! ‘Ere is your required payment!”

The troll bagged almost half of his entire cart and handed it to Ford. The man gaped at the large bag of assorted vegetables in his hand.

“Are you sure—“ he looked up and the troll was gone. He looked left, and then right, blinking in surprise, but no one was there.

As he traveled down the pathways, he saw several more market trolls, all of which looked at him as if they didn’t really care that he was an alien to them. It was almost more rattling then being chased down by policemen.

He stopped at one last cart, which he noticed was selling meat.

“What type of meat is this?” He asked, trying to sound professional as he addressed the female troll behind the counter. She looked up without batting an eye at his strange body and clothes.

“Fish.” She pointed one claw at a river a ways away.

Ford nodded like he knew what that meant, pulling out two sheets of paper. “Do you accept paper?”

The troll’s form turned slightly glitchy, like a broken television screen. After a second it went back to normal.

“Absolutely I do.”

They exchanged items and Stanford tucked the fish into the bag with his produce.

“I have a question for you,” He asked, trying to sound causal. The troll lady looked up slowly. “Why is it that you disappear? Or, you know, flicker away?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Wow, didn’t realize you was that foreign,” she rubbed her forearm placidly. “Just another side effect of not existing.”

Stanford blinked, then blinked again. Did she mean to say that she didn’t exist? That was a joke, surely?

“Yep,” she continued on blandly, “you’re here in the Non-existent Dimension, friend. Everyone who lives ‘ere lives in a little pocket of not reality. Sometimes the effects wear on us. We can’t be recorded in any way, shape, or form because of it.”

“Fascinating,” Ford breathed, his left hand twitching as if wanting to sporadically click a pen. “Utterly fascinating. So if I were, to say, get you on camera— you wouldn’t show up? As if a vampire?”

The troll lady blinked very, very slowly. She raised a single eyebrow, leaning forward on her cart.

“I don’t know quite whatcha mean... camera... vahmpie... but no, we can’t be recorded. On paper, film, micro-tech suspension bulb, or otherwise.”

“Huh.” Ford ran his fingers through his hair (he really needed to stop doing that, it was starting to stick up at the ends) and smiled. “Well, nice talking to you!”

The surprisingly nonchalant troll-lady nodded at him as he walked away, beaming at his good fortune. Stanford hadn’t had this much food in his possession since... well, he couldn’t quite recall.

He swiftly began the walk down the road back to where he came from. It was always great to leave when people couldn’t see you, after all. And the dark alleyway behind the tavern was the perfect jumping spot.

Stanford tugged at his coat, beginning to feel a slight sense of unease. He didn’t quite understand why... he was in a safe area, and this dimension had been rather hospitable—

 

Rather than stop, Ford immediately ducked and rolled, coming to a stop at the brick wall. He looked around for the source of the sound, head spinning, before he realized that he hadn’t heard the voice out loud.

About a second too late, he realized his collar had been grabbed by someone from behind, and there was a knife at his throat.

he heard darkly in his head, 

“Oh?” Ford played along, feeling the claws in his back and taking note of the size and position of the creature. “Why is that?”

Ford stiffened at the name, and the cold knife pressed closer to his skin. 

 

Ford sighed. “I hate having to do this to a creature so small,” he complained.

 

Stanford elbowed the little animal in the chest, knocking the wind out of her, before he grabbed the knife and clocked her out in one punch.

He felt a little sorry when he spun around and saw the little furry body on the floor. After all, she had only needed the money. But he then heard voices coming his way and realized that he needed to leave, as soon as possible.

Stanford gathered up his small leather bag of food that he had claimed from the vendors, and dragged them to where he was going to jump. 

He cast a glance back at the alien creature strewn across the pavement. Would she tell anyone who he was? Or how much his capture was worth?

The footsteps grew closer. They were probably unhurried, with the boring nature of this dimension... but you could never be too sure—

Ford’s eyes went back and forth between the small animal and the alley entrance. 

Could he— should he—

“Yeah, I heard something over here—“

With a last minute decision, Ford scooped up the body (surprisingly light) and teleported. A flash of bright light, a burning in his eyes, and the dimension was gone from Stanford’s plane of reality. 

When the trolls came around the corner to check out the strange activity, all they found was a slightly scorched spot on the cobblestone ground.


	6. The Desert Plane, 2005

 

Stanford landed face-first and slid forward a few feet, his nose and eyes filling with sand. He sat up and spat ungraciously onto the ground. His hair was probably permanently ruffled and grainy. Wonderful.

 

He began to stand before remembering— oh, right. He was holding someone. He carefully set the strange little alien down. She was simultaneously spiky and fluffy, in an odd way, and certainly did not look very threatening unconscious. She was also only about the weight of a cat, despite being the size of perhaps an eleven or twelve year old child.

 

Well, he better detain her, he realized. Couldn’t have a creature after him free.

 

He still had that pair of handcuffs from themontorous dimension he’d broken free of. Those would work just fine, if not a little big and clunky. A bit of fabric ripped off his sleeve, and bam— little creature successfully tied up and gagged.

 

Ford sat down in the sand, finally realizing how hot it was. He shielded his forehead and eyes from the sun, looking up at the biggest and bluest sky he had possibly ever seen. As far as the eye could see, he was in a desert. And not like a savanna desert, or an Australian desert, no. Only sand. Only sand for as far as the eye could see.

 

“Well, shoot.”

 

Ford thought he heard murmuring in the corner of his head, and had just enough time to think hadn’t I gagged her before his head was full of screaming.

 

<whhhhhOOOOO DID THIS?? Where am I? WHHHAAATT’S GOING ON? I’M GAGGED? I’M CHAINED? WHO DID THIS? WHO IS GOING TO DIE TODAY??>

 

Stanford winced and grabbed his head. Had he not already been on his knees he might have fallen. He reached, cautiously, for the writhing shape on the ground and pat it. The screeching abruptly stopped.

 

“So the gag doesn’t work,” he muttered to himself.

 

<Who is there? I’m gonna KILL YOU!>

 

“Calm down, little creature!” Ford held up his hands nonthreatingly before remembering she couldn’t see them. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

<Hurt ME? Oh NO buster, you should be worried about how I’M going to hurt YOU in a minute!>

 

Ford sighed at the bristling ball of fur on the sand. “It’s me, Stanford.”

 

<Pines? The criminal?!>

 

“I’m not a— ugh,” Ford ran his hands through his hair and reached forward to remove the loud little creatures’ blindfold. A pair of large, dark, slanted eyes stared at him silently. She sat up slowly, wrapping her tail around her feet without moving her gaze. He almost preferred the yelling.

 

<I tried to kill you...> the alien started, her ears rotating like satellite dishes, <so you brought me here to die?>

 

“What?! No!” Ford protested indignantly, scooting backward from the now sitting creature. He wondered why she sounded so calm about that. “I brought us both here. We’re, Uh, stuck here. Until my translator cools down.”

 

The alien groaned and buried her face in the sand.

 

<This is why I don’t take assassination jobs,> she mumbled.

 

Ford blinked at her. “You were on a job?”

 

<Well, duh,> the little thing looked back up at him. <Would I be working alone?> she rolled her eyes as if to imply that Ford was dense.

 

Stanford made a scoffing noise as he brushed off his coat. He then stood up and started to walk away.

 

The creature began to stand up to follow him before she tripped and fell onto her face.

 

<Hey, a little help?> came a voice in the back of Ford’s head.

 

He turned around and glared incredulously at her.

 

“Why should I help you? You tried to murder me! For money.”

 

<Well, you are a dangerous criminal,> the odd animal responded from the sand (ignoring Ford’s furious spluttering), <and it’s not like I can disobey. Besides, we’re kinda stuck together, aren’t we?>

 

“You know what? Fine!” Ford thew his hands in the air in annoyance. “If worse comes to worse, I’ll just eat you!”

 

The alien made a sound like she seriously doubted that as Stanford stomped over to her and hefted her up into his arms.

 

The reaction was immediate; suddenly there was hissing and screeching and the animal half jumped, half fell onto the sand.

 

<Woah! Dude! Personal space!>

 

“Um... sorry,” Ford responded slowly, still mostly shaken and rubbing his jarred forearms. “How am I supposed to transport you?”

 

———————————————————

 

Ford watched carefully as the creature limped oddly beside him, her handcuffs now rearranged to allow walking.

 

They had been walking for almost an hour now, and she hadn’t complained. It surprised Stanford, if he was being honest. Her legs were so short... and of course, the bound legs made it harder.

 

Over the course of fifty minutes, Ford had made several anatomy observations on his new desert companion.

For starters, her lions’ mane was severely unkempt, and was less like a lion then he originally realized. It was more like human hair.

Her face was human-like, but her nose and mouth were brought forward a little, and slightly fused together.

And her back legs were bunched up similar to a cat, or rabbit; they were oddly scaly and furry at the same time.

 

Several times she had caught him staring (his face probably resembling an intense college professor) and had responded by doing something odd; ranging from growling and hissing to heeling in slight fear.

The complete differences in responses confused Stanford to no end. How could one creature be so aggressive yet so submissive? How on Earth— pardon, the multiverse— has she been brought up?

 

There was walking. Man, had he underestimated walking in the desert. When he had imagined it, he’d always pictured hazy dunes and hallucinations. The truth was, Ford was much too sensible to travel without food or water, so he wasn’t hallucinating. He was just walking.

 

Walking on and on forever. The desert didn’t even look like it ended! He had simply picked a direction and started walking when they first landed here. Worse yet, the desert heat didn’t seem to let his translator cool down— at least not properly— and he feared that they might be stuck here for even longer then he thought.

 

The sun finally started to set, after what Ford was almost sure was more then twenty four hours, and he sat down in the sand.

 

<What? We’re stopping?> Y/nN’s odd voice filled Stanford’s head, shocking him after hours of silence. She seemed to bite her own tongue, but after a moment resolved to continue. <It’s night. That’s the best time for traveling in the desert, genius.>

 

“Yes, but we need food and rest,” Ford pointed out, shouldering his backpack off (which he had shoved his coat into to avoid heatstroke). He pat the sand next to him and, after a moment, the alien came and sat down near him. She watched as he took out his fire supplies and started building a pit.

 

Y/nN was quiet as he roasted the food, sitting almost at attention and staring off into the distance.

 

When Ford was done making... whatever it was he bought from the street vendors, (what seemed like weeks ago), he split it up into parts and carefully offered a piece to Y/nN. He was avoiding her gaze, but when a moment passed and she still hadn’t taken the meat he looked up at her in confusion.

 

Y/nN stares back at him, her dark, glassy green eyes reflecting the firelight.

 

<That’s your food,> she almost whispered, confused. <Why are you giving it to me?>

 

“You need to eat,” Ford answered. His voice was surprisingly calm, considering his insides felt like tectonic plates.

 

<You’d...> Y/nN’s eyes flickered from his hand, to his eyes, to his hand again. <You’d let me eat the same food as you?>

 

Ford didn’t answer. In truth, he wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. He silently continued to hold out the meat. And after a second, Y/nN took it.

 

<Wow,> he heard her mumbling, probably to herself. <Real vendor meat! It’s even bigger then table scraps... tastes better then I imagined...>

 

Ford tugged his coat back on, preparing for the night cold, as he lay on the sand. The stars didn’t look so bad... or at least, he thought they didn’t, because he was asleep a second later.

 

————————————

 

Ford woke with a start, like he always did, and reached for his gun when he didn’t recognize his surroundings. It was unholstered and cocked before he even realized what was happening, or

registered the dark sky above him.

 

<Xeest. Jumpy much?> came a low complaint. Ford whipped around with his gun and spotted Y/nN, still curled up in the sand. Her dark eyes weren’t as annoyed as her voice sounded.

 

After a second, Stanford processed where he was, who he was, and who he was with. The gun slowly returned to his holster and glanced up at the moon.

 

“It’s definitely been more then eight hours since we fell asleep,” Ford mused. “How is the sun not yet risen? It’s a different timezone here, isn’t it?” He realized as he talked.

 

<The sun rises and sets every twenty-five hours,> Y/nN supplied helpfully, <it’s very different from where I come from.>

 

“How do you figure that?” Ford asked, glaring at the sky.

 

<The sun set after twenty-five hours yesterday,> Y/nN answered easily. Ford looked at her in awe and confusion, not quite wanting to admit how impressed he was. Instead he opted for a more mundane question.

 

“How much did you sleep last night?”

 

<Hmm...> Y/nN’s weird nose scrunched up as she considered. <I fell asleep when you did, and then your sleep cycle started loosening and you were moving so I woke up then. Probably six hours.>

 

“You slept... How I did?” Ford summed up, dazed and frowning.

 

<Well, yeah. I’m trained to sleep the same amount of time as any superior I happen to be with. Oh, the sun’s rising,> Y/nN pointed out, starting to sit up.

 

Before Ford had taken a lot of time to be extremely confused about the sleeping thing, he glanced in the direction of the sun. Sure enough, rays were peeking over the horizon, promising more depriving traveling.

 

But there was something else, something— just not quite normal about the sun. And then Ford gasped.

 

<Do you see it?> Y/nN responded immediately, trying to stand. Ford realized that her arms had been tucked under her, and were still handcuffed. He winced. That must’ve been uncomfortable to sleep in.

 

<There’s something over there. Like... trees?>

 

“An Oasis!” Ford jumped up, almost smiling. “Water and shade, here we come!” He bent down to scoop up his very small amount of supplies and shove it into his jacket pockets, shaking off sand.

 

“Come on, Yin! We need to get going before the sun is overhead!”

 

Y/nN stood up, sending him an appalled look. <What did you call me?>

 

“Y- I called you Yin?” Ford shifted his weight and mood suddenly, growing worried. “I’m sorry, I thought that was how it was pronounced.”

 

<Can you say ‘Y/nN’?> She tried, raising an eyebrow as she got her arms into a moveable position.

 

“Uhh... Yixvniv? Yllskvnn? Yin?”

 

The little alien sighed, clambering oddly along until she was heading past him towards the sun. <Yin is close enough.>


	7. The In-Between World, 2007

 

Y/nN rubbed her forearms, staring into the fire.

 

<It must be nice to be important,> she said quietly.

 

“What?” Stanford looked up quickly, nearly dropping his food into the flames.

 

<You know, to... have a purpose. Change lives, and the world.> Y/nN grimaced up at him awkwardly. <I’m sorry, I’m venting. I’ll stop—>

 

“Yin, What could ever make you think you weren’t important?”

 

Stanford stared at her, hard. He was... well, the word was hard to describe. Annoyed? Miffed? No... offended. He was offended that Y/nN would say something like that.

 

<Well, I—> Y/nN blinked a little, bewildered. <I don’t exist. I literally, actually, am physically incapable of leaving a lasting impact on anything.>

 

Ford’s frown lines grew deeper as he stared through the fire at the creature across from him.

 

“Yin, who talked the guardsman away from our hiding spot in Plantine? Who kept him from finding me and killing me?”

 

<Me,> Y/nN admitted, <but—>

 

“And I have an important role, right? I’m leaving a lasting impact, correct?”

 

<Yes but I’m—>

 

“The one who saved my life,” Stanford interrupted fiercely. “Yin, without you doing everything you have been, I would be dead. Therefore, by keeping me alive, you’ve left an imprint on the multiverse.”

 

Y/nN’s mouth opened and closed a few times silently.

 

“Don’t argue with me. It’s science.”

 

She sighed, defeated, and curled up on the floor. <Well I won’t be able to do that for much longer,> she mumbled into the dirt.

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Stanford asked. “Are... you leaving?”

 

Whilst the logical part of Ford had understood the fact that Y/nN was dangerous to have around, being easily spotted, and difficult to provide for on top of himself (and was, in fact, an alien), but the rest of him hadn’t seemed to get the message. In fact, the rest of him had even dared to hope that she would stay with him after he found and defeated Bill.

 

<Not... exactly,> Said Y/nN, laying on her back. She stuck one claw towards the light of the fire, turning it over. Stanford studied it for a minute, trying to understand what she was doing.

He realized after a moment that he was looking through her forearm, into the trees beyond.

 

“Yin— your arm— did you touch any poisonous water—“ Ford started to stand up, “Did you hurt yourself?!”

 

The creature across from him didn’t react other then to slowly lower her claw. Ford hesitated.

 

<No,> she whispered. <I’m fading.>

 

“You’re what?” Ford startled.

 

<Disappearing.> Y/nN curled into herself. <I’ve been removed from my dimension... pretty soon, I’ll just cease to exist.>

 

Stanford stood, frozen, staring at the firelight reflection in Y/nN’s dark eyes.

 

<Like I’m supposed to.>

 

“What—“ Ford didn’t even know what to say. Or what to do. “You’re— you’re dying?”

 

<Fading,> Y/nN corrected, rolling over. <Although I suppose it’s similar to death.>

 

Stanford stood stalk still, trying to stop himself from shaking. The immediate area was beginning to look kind of blurry.

Before Ford knew it, he had stumbled around the fire to Y/nN, and had sat right next to her. He stuck one palm out wordlessly, and the creature obligingly presented him with her wrist.

 

Ford held it carefully, remembering how much Y/nN disliked being touched, and rubbed his thumb over the translucent part. It seemed to be mostly solid, but not for much longer.

 

“Why is this happening?” He asked bluntly, eyes still on the claws in his hand. “Is there a way to stop it?”

 

<I’m from the non-existent dimension,> Y/nN explained bitterly. <By definition, I don’t exist. The little pocket of reality I used to live in made the impossible possible. Take me out of it, and voila, I can’t exist anymore.>

 

The two of them sat in stunned silence for a few seconds. Ford still couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. He had thought about Y/nN leaving him, surely... it was to be expected. But Ford had never considered Y/nN dying. It just... couldn’t happen. Didn’t exist in his mind. Wasn’t true.

 

Ford realized that Y/nNs wrist was still in his hand. She was trembling slightly, a stark contrast to her calm voice, and Stanford felt a pang in his chest. After a moment of hesitation, he did something that he normally wouldn’t be allowed to do.

 

He leaned down, slid his arms under Y/nNs stomach, and pulled her up into his lap.

 

She made an odd noise of surprise, and stiffened.

But after a few seconds, Y/nN relaxed and stared into the fire. Normally she might bite or attack, but right now...

 

Ford carefully, cautiously, rested one six-fingered hand on her head. She didn’t react, so after a moment he began to methodically massage her red mane-like fur. They sat like that for a while, Y/nN curled up with her chin resting on Ford’s knees, him marveling at how light she was. Only about the weight of a cat, despite being the size of perhaps a twelve-year-old child.

 

Stanford’s eyes were slowly drifting closed by the time he registered a small sound. A rumbling of sorts, coming from Y/nN, who had relaxed completely with shut eyes. Purring? Or snoring? He smiled and let himself slowly fall asleep in the warmth of the fire and the weight of the creature on his lap.


	8. Gravity Falls, Oregon, 2012

Stan walked up to the stage area as best he could with the theater wrecked, just in time to hear two sets of feet stumbling towards him.

“Come on, bro-bro, it’s not that much farther—“

“Wha? Oh, ow, I— ow, Mabel you should probably take me to a doctor—“

Stan’s walking sped up until he rounded the corner and saw them.

The two children looked busted up, sad, and (in Dipper’s case) almost unable to stand. He had probably walked as well as he could for a while, but at this point he was leaning entirely on his sister.

“What happened, you two fall off a cliff?” Stan asked jokingly. He took several steps closer, subconsciously reaching for Dipper, who looked about to collapse.

“He, um. Overworked himself on the play a bit,” Mabel offered sheepishly.

“Is that so?” Stan looked at Dipper. The kid blinked once, then slowly nodded, he action causing him to slide closer to the floor. Mabel shifted her weight, wincing.

“Are you sure you can walk?” Stan asked. What on earth had Dipper been doing to himself? Was that— Stan flinched and surreptitiously looked closer— blood on his fingers?! Oh God, oh sweet Moses...

Dipper started to nod, then his eyes crossed a little as he frowned and began to shake his head side to side.

“Grunkle Stan, I can walk.” Stan ignored how Dipper flinched as he walked closer, reaching for his hands. Stan bet that if he pulled up the kids’ sleeves, they’d have bruises just like his face.

And as his fingers touched the fabric of his suit, the boy passed out completely and slid to the floor. The kid must’ve been using all of his energy to stand.

Mabel looked up at him with something that was obviously worry, and something else that was... trust? She trusted him to take care of her brother.

And with a sigh, Stan leaned over and slid his arms under Dipper, lifting the twelve-year-old up until his chin was resting on Stan’s shoulder.

Sweet Lord, the kid’s breathing was pretty labored. There was no way that he had just ‘overworked himself helping with the play’.

Stan started a walking pace towards the theater exit, ready to go home. He’d probably have to patch Dipper up now, too. Mabel skipped a little to catch up to him on her short legs, but her face was somber.

“So, how’d your brother try to kill himself this time?” Stan asked with what he hoped was a lack of emotion. For some reason, his choice of words had an instantaneous bad affect on Mabel. Her face scrunched up and turned sour and upset.

Stan’s stomach filled with worry. Dipper hadn’t... actually tried to do something to himself on purpose, had he? He’d thought the kid had some problems, but nothing that severe— was there a way to help? Could he call someone?

“Dipper, ah,” Mabel started, looking sadly and guiltily at her shoes, “he got tangled up in a deal with the wrong kind of person.”

A gang member? A homeless person? Whoever it was, Stan reserved the right to punch his lights out. He didn’t blame Dipper, anyhow, the kid was sleep deprived and had a lot of trouble recognizing a bad situation. The fact that he had been able to get in such a situation in the first place made Stan uneasy. When had he met up with them? Stan wasn’t the greatest caretaker by any means, but he’d hoped to at least keep the kids from dying.

He tightened his grip on Dipper, who made a sound in his sleep.

“Do you know the guys name?” Stan implored. Maybe he could make himself feel better by just beating up a dude.

There was a very long pause in which Mabel wouldn’t look at him.

“No,” she said quietly, “I don’t.”

A lie, a lie, a LIE, Stans brain sang. Was she protecting the guys identity? Did... she not trust Stan? Or was there a different reason?

He sighed as he opened the door of the El Diablo, setting Dipper carefully inside. Mabel saw him do this, so he slammed the door to make up for it.

He’d talk to Dipper himself when they got home.

 

—————————————

Stan pulled up the chair and sat in it, leaning forward with his arms resting on his knees.

Dipper glanced at him apprehensively, wringing his hands together. He looked a bit like a man about to be interrogated. Which, in a way, was true.

“So,” Stan started, “I guess you know why I’m here.”

Dipper masterfully avoided his gaze, picking at one of the many bandages on his arm. He didn’t say anything.

“Kid, what happened yesterday?”

Dipper wriggled a little in his seat. He still wouldn’t talk.

Stan sighed.

“Okay I— it was an accident,” the boy blurted, then looked surprised at himself.

“An accident?” Stan repeated, glancing at Dippers’ wrists as the preteen sweat nervously on his bed. When he had given Mabel the bandages (she had refused to let Stan help treat Dipper) he had noticed odd marks in his arms. Rows of pokes. Like someone had stuck something spiky into him.

Dipper blew a frustrated breath out and looked up at one of the moldy spots on the ceiling. “I didn’t do it,” he muttered. It didn’t sound like a lie.

Someone else had? Someone had, while Stan was in charge, grabbed Dipper and beaten him up? Stan understood from Mabel that Dipper had a bruised back, marked up arms, and cut up wrists. How had that happened? How had Stan let that happen?

“Someone attacked you?” Stan asked, his voice rising on its own. Dipper flinched back, shaking his head.

“No, I- Well, I didn’t do it but— it wasn’t anybody else it— it wasn’t me but...” He started breathing oddly, his knees coming up to his chest. “It wasn’t me,” he whispered, trembling.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Stan offered immediately. He jerked at his own change of tone. Why had he— oh. Dipper was not breathing correctly. Just like when Stanford had—

Stan moved from his chair to the bed as fast as possible. He almost wrapped his arm around Dippers shoulders, but decided not to.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Hey, shh. Kid, it’s okay. You’re safe here.”

Dipper was still breathing erratically, looking up at Stan with terrified eyes.

“Listen to me,” Stan commanded in a low voice, “I want you to breathe. Do you understand?”

Dippers’ posture didn’t change at all. Stan moved closer, and then was hurt by the way Dipper flinched.

“Breathe in. Breathe out. In, and out. It’s not as hard as it seems. In, and out. Bigger chest, and smaller chest. Look at that, you can do it!”

Dipper shakily breathed in again, petrified in place but at least his heartbeat was slowing down. His small warm brown eyes looked as though they had seen darknesses far beyond this universe.

Stan stiffened as Dipper leaned against him, shoving his face into the suit. After a moment Stan moved his arm around the boys’ shaking shoulders as well.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Stan murmured. Every part of him was screaming that Dipper DID need to tell him, NOW, but he clamped down on it. “But if this guy ever tries to bother you again, you tell me straightaway, got it?”

Dipper nodded, pulling away and turning so he could wipe his eyes. Stan pretended not to see and then stood up.

As he reached the door he whipped around and glared at Dipper with all his might.

“But NEXT time you disobey me, it’ll be toilet cleaning duty for the rest of the summer! Got it?!”

Dipper huffed a little laugh, drawing his blankets around himself with a small and teary smile. Stan smiled back, and shut the door.

 

————————————

He took the Pit Cola out of the cooler, walking back inside and shutting the door. The soda ought to keep him up the rest of the night, allowing him to get the most work done possible before morning. Stan had almost made his way back to the vending machine before he heard a sound from upstairs.

A thump.

And, yesterday’s events swimming in Stan’s mind, he set the cola down immediately and ran up the stairs (not good for his back) and threw open the door to the attic bedroom.

The room appeared undisturbed, the same as it was when the kids came up here to go to sleep hours ago. And yet... the painting by Dippers’ bed, the one of the sailboat, was tilted. As though something had hit it.

Stan walked further into the room, examining each child in turn. Mabel was snoring quietly, her braces making an odd whistle sound occasionally. Her arm was wrapped around a unicorn stuffed toy and her body was covered in animals from her collection.  
Satisfied that she was safe, Stan moved over to the real concern— Dipper.

As Stan moved closer, he realized that Dipper was talking. Or rather, mumbling. In his sleep.

And then Dippers’ entire body spasmed, kicking the wall beside him and rocking the sailor painting. His mumbling grew distinctly louder, and Stan leaned in carefully.

“No, please, no,” he whimpered softly. “Please— no— stop, Mabel, that’s not me— that’s not me— give me my body— give it back, stop—“

Stan decided that now was the best time to begin shaking Dipper.

“STOP, NO, PLEASE I CAN’T ITS MY BODY THAT’S NOT ME—“

Dipper sat up, stared at Stan for a long time, and didn’t move.

“Stan?”

Stan released Dippers’ shoulders, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“You okay, kid?” He asked, trying not to show how rattled he was by what Dipper had been saying.

Dipper breathed in. Looked at Stan. Breathed out. 

“Yeah, I’m... I’m okay.”

Stan nodded, standing up to leave the room. Dipper didn’t ask him what he was doing up so late, and he didn’t ask the kid what he had dreamed about.

And as Stan tramped down the stairs to the basement, he tried not to think about how obvious it was that Dipper lied.


	9. Weirdmageddon, Day One

It’d been five hours. Five hours since he’d sat with Mabel in her bedroom and tried to make her feel better about going home. 

Five hours since he last saw his kids.

He’d told Mabel that she didn’t have to ‘grow up’ if she didn’t want to. He’d reassured her that at least back in California, she’d always have Dipper.

He’d called her ‘pumpkin’. Huh, that one was new. But he’d stopped denying it by now. It was just fact.   
Fact that he loved those children more then anything in the world.

He hoped that wherever they were, they were together.

He hadn’t seen Stanford either since the sky split open. He’d say ‘good riddance’, but the (admittedly very large) part of him that still loved his brother wouldn’t allow it.  
For some reason.

Stan stacked his Brown Meat higher up on the shelves, humming slightly to himself. If he didn’t think about it, he could pretend that is was just a normal work day. That the world wasn’t literally ending just outside his door.

Whatever Ford had done to the Shack with his unicorn voodoo had actually seemed to protect it to an extent. Most of the nightmare creatures outside couldn’t get past the property line (with the exception of the eye-bats, whose beams of light reached inside).

Stan could try to pretend that none of it was happening, but his mind wasn’t cooperating. It was instead taking its time coming up with several different ways one or both of the twins could have died by now.  
Which wasn’t helpful.

In fact, if Stan was a softer man, he might have been crying right now.  
Luckily, he wasn’t. Absolutely. He might have caught some apocalyptic dust in his eye earlier, but that was unrelated.

Completely unrelated.

And if the cans of unopened meat were looking a little blurry, that was probably due to the smoke in the air.

Once he’d finished readying all of his food, he didn’t have much else to do. In fact, he was actually pretty bored of the apocalypse.

Luckily, the television still somehow worked. He sat carefully in his worn out armchair and turned it to the News channel (the only one working) and felt some semblance of normality. It may have been uncomfortable to watch TV in a suit, but he didn’t feel safe without it.

“Hello, I’m Shandra Jimenez. It appears that the world is ending. Finally, some interesting news! Everyone is recommended to stay indoors until some sort of savior arrives.” 

Stan grunted. Ford might come up with something; he always did. 

Stanford was the hero.

“Anyone outside has been taken by eye-bats up to the pyramid in the sky, which is most likely Bill’s home base.”

That was new. Stan knew the eye-bats turned animals into stone; he had seen it through the window. But taking people? The kids could be up there, right now, facing ultimate terror...

The television shut off with a click. Stan leaned back in his seat. Stared at the pieces of the ceiling that were still intact.  
Tried to remain sane.

There was a knock on the door. Stanley jolted upright, nearly knocking over the dinosaur skull footrest.

“Who is it?” He shouted, picking up his baseball bat from beside the couch as he stood up. “WHO’S THERE?”

He flung the front door open with a bat to the ready, face to face with—

“Old Man McGuckett?!”

Stan barely stopped himself from knocking the hillbilly’s lights out.

“Hiya!” McGuckett grinned at him, flashing a golden tooth.

“What... what are you doing here?” Stan asked, reluctantly lowering his bat.

“Well...” the man scratched his beard, then moved out of the doorway to let Stan see behind him. 

Stanley blinked a few times.

“Ya got room fer a few visitors?”

—————————————————

Unfortunately, Stan hadn’t had it in him to say no to a bunch of people out of house and home. Not when he had one to share.

Fortunately, most of the townspeople seemed to understand the concept of privacy and how it worked, and were content on sharing living quarters.

Stan was also a master organizer of teams; and had already settled down the few straggling people, video game characters, manotaurs, gnomes, golf ball people, and one large several-headed bear thing.

Most of the monsters took to some weird things, like making eight-bit noises or throwing ‘manliness competitions’; but all in all Stan didn’t mind.

It was actually a lot preferred to being alone.

When he tried to sit down in his chair, something was in the way. Something small and yellow and curled in on itself.

Now, Stan knew how to be a patient man, but he’d also just let a bunch of apocalyptic survivors into his home. The chair was where he drew the line.

“Get out of my chair,” he snapped.

The small thing uncurled and looked up at him with big, watery blue eyes. The blonde hair moved out of her face and down her back.   
When she saw him glaring, she jumped out of the chair like she had been stung and awkwardly hovered to the side.

Stan fell into his chair with a grunt, shifting until he was comfy. The little girl didn’t move, her smeared eyes staring vaguely into a space near his head.

“Hey,” he realized sharply, “aren’t you that Northwest kid?” He didn’t know how he hadn’t recognized her, although her smeared eyeliner and messy clothes maybe had to do with it.

The blonde girl flinched when he spoke, taking some of her ripped blue gown in her hands, but straightened her posture.

“Yes,” she said, obviously trying to sound authoritative. And failing.

“What are you doing in this dump?” He asked bluntly, taking his remote and toying with each familiar button.

“My parents were gone when I left the house,” Pacifica muttered bitterly. “I didn’t think much of it because they’re always gone, but then I saw the sky and...”

She paused to breathe. Stan let her.

“I was afraid, so I hid. Then I remembered that common people like to help each other and I...” she took a moment, like she was admitting to something awful. “I went to find help. I thought I might run into Dipper or someone but...” Pacifica waved a hand in the direction of Old Man McGuckett, who was spitting in a barrel.

Stan nodded. He knew plenty about life on the streets. He was rather surprised that a Northwest, of all people, would willingly come to the Mystery Shack, though.

“Wait,” He said, realizing that the kid was holding up her clothes for a reason. “Is your dress coming off?”

Pacifica’s face tinged red and she tightened her hold on the blue marital. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Kid, you’re not wearing that,” Stan declared without room for argument. He hefted out of his chair and walked to the kitchen, opening a cabinet and reaching inside. Pacifica followed him into the room like a lost puppy.

“I think Mabel was trying a new line of ‘sack clothing’ for W— for that pig last week. Here.”

He tossed a purple outfit into her arms. The blonde barely managed to catch it, then ran off to the bathroom with her face hidden in the sack.

Stan wandered off to another area of the house, where the large bear-like thing was trying to make itself comfortable in a corner.

“Oh, hello,” said one of the bears’ faces when it saw him. “Thanks for letting us stay here.”

Stan shrugged, and fiddled with his tie. “As long as no one’s suing me for bad living conditions.”

“I’m Multi-Bear,” it continued. Stan noticed after a moment that the creature kept rubbing one of its eyes.

“What happened there?” Stanley interrupted, gesturing at the bears’ eye.

Multi-Bear winced. “A branch, while I was fleeing the mountain.” It sighed.

Stan stood quietly for a moment, surveying the creature, before he reached into his pocket and pulled out an eye patch.

Multi-Bears’ eyebrows raised as Stan wordlessly placed the object in its paw and walked back to his chair.

Stan had gotten comfortable and was considering turning back on the TV when Pacifica returned.

The Northwest had made herself at home in the potato sack, wearing it like actual clothing. Although her hair and makeup were still ruined.

Stan waited for her to spit out whatever she needed to say, because her fists were clenched and her stance was tense.

“Hey!” Pacifica blurted out as Stan was considered poking her. She flushed and glared at him. “Uh... like, thank you for taking us in and stuff.” Her mouth snapped shut afterward, as if she had been speaking terrible words.

“About time,” Stan replied gruffly, and Pacifica has the grace to look embarrassed as she walked over to the book collection.

Old Man McGuckett proved invaluable as he split meat among the refugees of Weirdmaggedon and organized the chaos that was Stans’ main room. Honestly, Stan could care less. His house had looked worse. At least no one was destroying anything on purpose.

Worry for the kids made Stan check the TV that night. There was another useless report from Shandra, warning that a prison breakout had occurred and to look out for escaped convicts.  
Great. Just what this town needed.

“Stan?” Said a voice from behind his head, snapping Stanley out of his imagined death scenarios.

“Huh? What?” Stan asked, rubbing his head.

“Well, we’ve got a sitchua-shun’ devellipin.” McGuckett tapped against his knee with one hand, in a way that almost looked intentional. If it was some kind of code, Stan didn’t know it.

“Well, What is it?” Stan asked, his neck not leaving the chair.

“The gnomes are attemptin’ ter steal all that there meat ya had stored up.”

“What?!” Stan leapt our of his chair and flew to the rescue of his food.

“No! Go away!” He scolded, grabbing the broom from the wall and shooing the gnomes out of the kitchen. As they scampered away with various annoying cries, Stan wondered to himself if they were edible.

“Why shouldn’t we have fair pick of the food?” Yelled a gnome, shaking his tiny fist at Stan.

“Because I said so!” Stan shouted back. “And it’s my house, so I’m in charge! Am I going to need, like, a badge or something? A crown? How can I get this across to you?”

“Oh, I have an idea!” Pacifica declared. She took the red sash off her potato sack. “This was on my dress. I was using it for an accessory, but you can have it.”

“... Thanks, kid,” Stanley praised, genuinely surprised and happy.

“Whatever,” Pacifica muttered quietly, pretending to frown. She handed him the fabric and he slung it over himself, feeling like a king.

“The eye-bats got the mayor, so maybe you could be... chief?” Sheriff Blubbs suggested, shrugging.

“I like it,” Stan grinned, taking a marker from McGuckett, and writing “CHIEF” on his sash.

“HA!” Stan said to the gnome, capping his marker. “How’s that for authority?”

And just like that, the survivors were chanting his name.

“Chief Stan! Chief Stan! Chief Stan!”


	10. Xpcveaoqfoxso, Fearamid

Too slowly and all at once, Ford could see again.

He spun fiercely around, his hands fisting automatically as he looked for Bill.

“Let me go, you insane, three-sided—!” Ford stopped. He was NOT hovering above Bill’s henchmaniacs. He was in a room with red lighting, walled with yellow bricks not unlike Bill himself. 

“... what is this place?”   
The walls were covered in Bill-themed tapestries, and the main room appeared to be furniture surrounding a fireplace. The whole room was uncomfortably hot.

Then, out of nowhere, Ford began to hear singing. He took a step forward and—

Clunk. His foot was held back. He turned, shocked, and pulled, but no— he was chained to the floor. Rage began to fill him as he turned to see the source of the song rise out of the floor in blue flames.

“WE’LL,

MEET AGAIN,

DON’T KNOW WHERE—

DON’T KNOW WHEEN!

BUT I KNOW WE’LL MEET AGAIN,

SOME SUNNY DAY.”

A piano appeared out of the floor, being played by none other then the triangle himself. Ford glared.

“Where am I?” He asked, throwing his arms to the side and acting as calm as possible.

“YOU’RE IN THE PENTHOUSE SUITE, KID,” Bill responded, turning around and grabbing a glass of wine as the piano continued to play itself, “THE TIP OF THE PYRAMID.” Bill snapped and a glass appeared in Ford’s hand.

“HAVE A DRINK. MAKE YOURSELF COMFORTABLE.”

Ford sat down on the couch beside him, but he didn’t drink any of the wine, and he kept his angry gaze on the triangle.

Bill wasn’t bothered by this, as he held his own refreshment up to his eyeball and used the eyelids to take a long swig. When he was finished, he smiled at Ford and said, “YOU KNOW THAT COUCH IS MADE FROM LIVING HUMAN SKIN?”

Ford jumped up with a yelp as the couch stuck its own disgusting tongue out at him, and then whipped around with a furious look.

“Quit the games, Cipher!” He lunged forward and pointed at Bill, the chains dragging left foot behind. “If I’m still alive, you must want something from me.”

“AH, SHARP AS EVER, FORDSY,” Bill acknowledged. Ford ignored it. He wasn’t dumb enough to fall for easy flattery. Not anymore.

“AS YOU MAY HAVE NOTICED,” Bill continued, floating up and spinning around to display his three-dimensional sides, “I’VE RECENTLY HAD A MULTI-DIMENSIONAL MAKEOVER.”

“I CONTROL SPACE, MATTER—“ he demonstrated by teleporting Ford across the room (deconstructing him into pieces) “AND NOW THAT THAT DUMB BABY’S OUT OF THE WAY, TIME ITSELF!”

Had— had Bill killed Time Baby? That was an issue. Time baby would have been a great fail save. Now, no one was in charge of time at all.

Except for Bill, of course, who was still levitating Ford up to his level.

“BUT I WASN’T ALWAYS THIS WAY,” Bill admitted, snapping his fingers. Ford fell to the ground with a soft oof.

Ford rubbed his chin, his weary gaze following Cipher across the room.

“YOU THINK THOSE CHAINS ARE TIGHT? IMAGINE LIVING IN THE SECOND DIMENSION.”

Bill angrily began to demonstrate, displaying a planet on a grid with no depth.

“FLAT MINDS IN A FLAT WORLD WITH FLAT DREAMS.” The display caught fire. Ford watched with mounting horror, slowly standing up. “I LIBERATED MY DIMENSION, STANFORD, AND I’M HERE TO LIBERATE YOURS.

“THERE’S JUST ONE HITCH,” Bill shot up, using his eye to project a hologram of Gravity Falls, surrounded by a bubble. As Ford watched, a Hologram Bill tried to push his way out, to no avail. “AS IT TURNS OUT, MY WEIRDNESS CAN’T ESCAPE THE MAGICAL CONFINES OF THIS TOWN. THERE’S SOMETHING KEEPING ME IN.”

“Incredible,” Stanford mumbled to himself, studying the hologram and forgetting for a moment who he was with. “Gravity Falls’s natural law of Weirdness Magnetism...” So Bill couldn’t leave. He imagined the tantrum that had happened when this bubble was discovered and nearly smiled. “I studied this years ago.” He’d had no idea that Bill himself was contained by such a force however.

“AND DID YOU FIGURE OUT HOW TO UNDO IT?” Bill asked.

“Of course, there’s a simple equation that could collapse the barrier,” Ford met Bill’s eye, puffing up, “But I’d never tell you!”

“LISTEN, FORD,” Bill started, raising a finger, “IF YOU JUST GIVE ME THAT EQUATION, FINALLY YOUR DIMENSION WILL BE SET FREE.”

In the hologram, Bill burst through the bubble and began to grow to be the size of the earth. When he was large enough that the planet was beachball sized, he turned around and smiled down on it. 

“ANYTHING WILL BE POSSIBLE.”

Holo-Bill gleefully dug his fingers into America, scraping out a disturbing smile before his eye grew teeth and he chomped a bite of the the entire globe.

“I’LL REMAKE A FUN WORLD— A BETTER WORLD! A PARTY THAT NEVER ENDS WITH A HOST THAT NEVER DIES!”

Holo-Bill flew into the cosmos, where several of his henchmaniacs were delightedly playing with nearby planets.

“NO MORE RESTRICTIONS! NO MORE LAWS!”

And, in the middle of it all, a Holo-Ford rose above the Milky Way, grinning insanely and holding his hands up powerfully.

“AND YOU’D BE ONE OF US— ALL-POWERFUL. GREATER THEN ANYTHING YOU’VE IMAGINED.”

Bill turned the hologram off, looking purposefully at Ford with a shrug, “AND ALL I NEED IS YOUR HELP.”

Ford grit his teeth with disgust. All this time, and Bill still thought what everyone wanted most in the world was Power?

Ford didn’t care about ‘infinite power over the galaxy’. That stuff always came at a price.

What Ford has wanted most in the world was recognition. For people to see him as a hero— to look beyond certain flaws because he was the genius who changed the world.

Stanford knew that perhaps... that wasn’t even what he wanted anymore. If he was asking himself, truly, what he wanted most right now was...

For his family to be safe, and for his mistakes to be atoned for.

“You’re insane if you think I’ll help you,” Ford growled, his fist clenching at his side.

Bill let out a peal of laughter and sank onto the couch.

“I’M INSANE EITHER WAY, BRAINIAC!” He rolled his eye, “BUT HAVE IT YOUR WAY. I’LL JUST FISH AROUND AND GET THAT EQUATION DIRECTLY OUT OF YOUR MIND!” 

And with a flash, Bill’s brand new physical body became stone, and he soared out of it as a stencil of light, reaching for Ford’s head.

“Not so fast,” the scientist spat, stopping Bill in his tracks. “You know the rules, Bill.”  
Ford grinned and puffed out his chest, waving his hands at his head. Bill pouted and sank back into the stone.

“You may be able to haunt my dreams, but you can’t enter my mind unless I shake your hand and LET you in!” Ford sent the triangle a smug expression. All this time, and Bill had ended his own deal. One that had lasted until the end of time.

But now, there was no time. Ergo, no deal.

Bill sighed, twirling his wine glass in hand.

“YOU’RE MAKING THIS SO MUCH HARDER THEN IT NEEDS TO BE.”

Glowing blue chains appeared from the ground and clapped onto both of Ford’s ankles. As he gasped, another one came from behind and grabbed his neck.

Ford choked and grabbed the collar, trying to remove it by force. It only became tighter.

Bill brought Ford close to himself and glared.

“EVERYONE HAS A WEAKNESS, TOUGH GUY,” he said, holding up his drink. “I’LL MAKE YOU TALK.”

 

“IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME.”

 

And Ford screamed.

———————————————-

What time was it?

Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world, thought to himself as he floated in the vast expanse of nothingness that was his own consciousness. He was almost hopeful that he was dead, and that the God Fiddleford sometimes spoke of may be coming to rescue him, but Ford also wasn’t one to hope.

Besides, he could still feel the tethering link that was reality.

What time was it?

Ford realized he was feeling something in his chest. (A soul?). No, wait, of course. Just cuts and bruises mildly affecting him, even in his mind. What was his damage...? Oh, ha ha, “what’s your damage”. An old term from... the eighties...? Certainly it wasn’t around anymore, he’d never heard it said.

Anyway, what was his ‘damage’, so to speak? He couldn’t feel it here, in this hellish void between life and whatever came after. He’d just have to... try to remember.

His arm. He remembered that quite clearly. Probably... broken? At the very least fractured. It was his left arm. He vaguely remember a snap, and a piercing pain, mixed in between Bill’s laughs.

What time was it?

His chest, too. He was beginning to remember that. His chest was covered in shallow cuts. Most of them were random, but a few had been carved into a triangle. A little ‘souvenir’, if he would. 

And his neck. Definitely hurt, that’s where all of the shocks were coming from. His skin was probably burned and scarred under there. Ford regretted wearing his turtleneck now. Why did he have it? To save his pride and keep people from seeing a tattoo? So arrogant.

Oh, no, he was starting to feel his toes again. That meant he was going back. Ford did the soul equivalent of a sigh, and resigned himself to more pain.

What time was it?

He could almost see again... he was starting to comprehend the yellow shape hovering in front of him. A second later, the pain came rushing back. His chest felt like tearing, his wrists were going to come off, and his left arm was screaming for help. His head was throbbing (especially the plated area) too. Ford made a soft, resigned whimpering noise.

“Wh... what time is it...?” He muttered, almost to himself.

“HMM, LET ME JUST BRING OUT MY WATCH HERE— DO YOU THINK I GIVE A FLYING FLIP WHAT TIME IT IS?!

“Jus... wondering.” Hoping that the kids were safe. Hoping that Weirdmageddon hadn’t been going on for too long.

“I CAN HEAL YOU AS MANY TIMES AS I LIKE, MATTER-SACK. YOU’LL KEEP GETTING THE SHORT END OF THE STICK UNTIL YOU FESS UP THAT EQUATION.”

Ford opened one eye all the way, staring at Bill. Several of the henchmaniacs had stopped their dancing to watch with a smile.

“Well I’m not telling,” Ford said lowly, “I don’t care how much you do to me.” He spat blood onto the floor. The pain from his left arm was really starting to make his vision hazy. Hanging by the wrists on chains probably wasn’t good for his broken arm.

“HMMMM,” Bill though to himself, his eye narrowing. “THAT SOUNDS LIKE THE BLUFF OF SOMEONE WHO’S BEVER EXPERIENCED TORTURE BY ELECTROCUTION.”

Ford grit his teeth.

“AND THAT PLATE OF METAL IN YOUR HEAD WILL MAKE THIS REAL INTERESTING,” Bill twirled a cane around, laughing at his minions. “AIN’T THIS HILARIOUS?”

Ford’s senses were suddenly overloaded with pain and a sizzling noise.

He was going to die here, he realized. He was going to die at the hands of Bill. Even worse, Bill had made it into this dimension and was going to take over everything.

Ford was going to die a failure. 

He was glad Pa couldn’t see him now.


	11. Weirdmageddon, Day Three

It had been three days.

Three. Days.

Stan was trying to pretend it didn’t bother him. That he didn’t care. That he was the Chief, and nothing bothered the Chief.

“Mr. Pines, is something wrong?”

Stan was surprised she had been the one to notice, honestly. Literally anyone else at this house would have had a better chance at seeing his emotions. 

But lately, the Northwest kid had been flanking him like a lost dog. She didn’t seem to know what to do without her parents. Or a standard to follow. Stan hadn’t asked her to go away yet, because she was actually fairly good of staying out of his way, but it still was a little weird. And now she had to start acting all concerned on him? No.

“No,” Stan rolled his eyes, scratching the back of his head. “It’s not like the world is ending outside or anything.”

“Not that,” Pacifica huffed in annoyance. “You’ve been worried about something.”

“Says who?” Stan snapped angrily, picking up his television remote. His armchair was the only thing he could rely on.

“I’m a professional actor, Mr. Pines.” Man, did this kid have an attitude. “You think I don’t notice obvious basic distress movements?”

“Well, if you’re so smart, what am I worried about?”

Pacifica looked at him steadily. 

“...Your family.”

Stan sighed and stared at the wall, his fingers running along the remote buttons.

He was dying inside.

His rib cage had become more crushed every day. Every day, even after the walled areas had been set up, he felt a little more suffocated when he noticed the people missing from his ranks.

He was worried. The kids could be dead. Ford could be dead. Soos could be dead. Wendy could be dead.

He didn’t even know. He didn’t know anything at all. Ford was the hero. Everyone else seemed to understand that.

But the kids didn’t. For whatever reason, they had decided to believe in him, to trust him and love him. He was their hero. 

And he was failing them.

He was glad Pa couldn’t see him now.

“...Nah, I’m not worried about ‘em. They’re smart kids, they can take care of themselves.”

Pacifica nodded, turning away and looking into the distance as if she thought they would be okay.   
Well, at least someone did.

Stan sure as hell didn’t.

Dipper could be lying in a ditch. Mabel could have had her arms broken. Ford could have lost the children. They could have been hit by a car. They could have been taken by an eyebat.

Stan flashed back to his grifter days and remembered the horrifying despair that was crawling with broken bones, trying to find an escape or shelter once the attackers had left him for dead. Thinking about the kids in that kind of situation made him want to throw up.

He clenched the remote tighter. One of these days those kids were going to kill him.

The television clicked onto the news channel. Pacifica tunes in, looking at the screen with interest.

Shandra Jimenez appeared on screen. Half of her styled hair had been burned off, and her perfect jawline was dirty and singed.

“We are day three in this strange cataclysmic event, which some are calling ‘Weirdmageddon,’ or the ‘Oddpocalypse.’ Weather today calls for black clouds, blood rain and frequent showers of Eyeball Bats turning people into stone.” 

Oh sweet Moses. 

“I'm Shandra Jimenez, and I ate a rat for dinner.”

It was even worse out there then Stan realized. Which gave an even higher chance of the children being hurt. He couldn’t handle this any longer. 

Stan stood up abruptly, nearly flinging the remote off the couch, and steeped into the sleeping quarters.

Several cots and curtains had been set up in the area, in a makeshift attempt to make a camping area with some privacy.

“Alright, everybody, listen up!” Stan shouted, clapping his hands together several times. The murmur of voices died down as everyone gave him their attention.

He looked around with a frown. “I want everyone in bed in ten minutes!” He said. Several ‘booos’ came from the crowd.

“It’s not even all the way dark outside!” pointed out one girl accusingly.

“That may be true, but nobody slept yesterday,” Stan replied. He watched as the angry expressions changed to guilty ones. “I want you all in bed. No exceptions. Everyone.”

There was still some grumbles, but no one could argue that they weren’t tired, so they all went off to their individual spaces and started lying down. Besides Old Man McGucket, who was sitting in one corner of the room, quietly working away on his laptop; and Pacifica, who was apparently dragging her mattress over into the parlor.

Stan seated himself in the armchair, resigning his time to carefully guarding the house like he did every night.

Pacifica’s mattress suspiciously ended up next to Stan’s chair, and she curled up with her back pressing into the furniture as she slowly relaxed. Stan didn’t comment on it.

He sat and listened as the murmurs eventually grew into whispers, and the whispers lulled into nothing.

Stan sat, and he watched, and he held his baseball bat at his side, trying hard not to think about the kids and where they might be.

And, very carefully, the sun fell and rose, as it did every morning and night.

Constant and everlasting in Stan’s ever-rocking world.


	12. Gravity Falls, Oregon, 2012

 

Ford looked. He looked and he looked but he still, really wasn’t sure he was seeing right.

He’d known this was what was going to happen. He’d understood, logically, that Stan’s mind was going to be erased entirely.

That Stan had sacrificed his entire self for his family. For Ford.

He had known this.

But knowing it— knowing something was going to happen— it couldn’t prepare him for the actual real event of seeing Stan without his memories. Ford was in shock.

It was Stan. The person sitting in the grass with Ford’s coat on, rubbing his eyes in confusion, had Stan’s face. And his body.  
But the person inside was the farthest thing from himself he could possibly be.

Ford choked on a sob.

Stanford didn’t have the heart to stop Mabel as she ran across the clearing, beaming from ear to ear, and shouted her Grunkles’ name. They’d just saved the world, after all. It was only fair she should get to celebrate it.

Dipper followed her at a slower pace. The boy already suspected something. Stan looked weird, and had been at the end of a memory gun.  
Dipper was so, so smart.

Ford was biting his lip now, trying to force himself to feel. To come back to earth. He was still mostly in shock. In fact, part of him believed that as soon as Mabel hugged him, Stan would get up and be himself as if nothing had even happened.

“Grunkle Stan, you did it!” Mabel laughed. She placed the Mr. Mystery fez back on Stan’s head (where it belonged). The hat tilted to the side. Stan didn’t fix it. Mabel squeezed him tightly, grinning.

The man in Stan’s body blinked once. Twice. He smiled slowly at Mabel, as if he didn’t want to hurt her feelings, and carefully brought her arms off of him.

“H-hey there... kiddo,” he said gently.  
“What’s your name?”

The little girl stood back and stared at him with a hint of confusion. “Heh... Grunkle Stan?”

Stan stared at her blankly, not understanding, and then turned to look behind him, as if the answer was to be found there.

“Heh... who’re you talkin’ too?”

Ford couldn’t bear it any longer. Dipper saw this, and they exchanged a look, simultaneously reaching for Mabel’s arms.

“C-cmon. It’s me. It’s me, Grunkle Stan!” Mabel screeched as Ford and Dipper gently pulled her back, away from Stan.

Stan looked at her sadly. He was sorry. Ford could tell. Stan hadn’t done anything wrong, but he was sorry that she was sad anyway.

“We has to erase his mind to defeat Bill,” Stan murmured in Mabel’s ear. She stopped struggling, instead moving her hands to cover her mouth. “It’s all gone.”

Ford walked over to Stan, who looked up at him in wary confusion. 

“Stan has no idea, but he did it,” Ford said to himself, or maybe to the kids, or maybe to Stan. “He saved the world.”

And Ford got down on eye level with the man who was once Stanley Pines, eyes swimming. “He saved me.”

“You’re our hero, Stanley,” Ford said, his voice breaking, and then he flung his arms around Stan and squeezed him tight, sniffling as tears ran down his face. He fisted his hands in the back of the lab coat and held on like he could never let go.

Stan didn’t hug him back.  
In fact, he sat limply, like a rag doll. 

All this time, all Stan had wanted, was a ‘thank you.’ Just an acknowledgment to his existence. And Ford was such a failure that he couldn’t even do that.

Stan had wanted a hug from Ford for so, so long. Now he could never have one.

 

Ford gave Stan back Dad’s— no — Stanley’s suit. It was his in every right.

Once he had it on, he looked a little bit like himself, but everything was still wrong. The fez didn’t sit right. He hadn’t buttoned up his suit, so his stomach hung out glumly. 

Everything was wrong, forever.

Ford helped his brother to his feet carefully. Stan hadn’t sustained much damage, and got up easily when Ford lent a hand. He did, however, keep sending puzzled glances at the two children, who were sitting together in the grass. Mabel was crying to herself, and Dipper had turned his head away.

They didn’t deserve this.

Stan didn’t deserve this either.

They were walking through the woods together, back to the house. Eventually, Mabel composed herself enough to come forward and hold Stan’s hand.

He looked a little puzzled, but he didn’t stop her.

Ford’s feet started to hurt after a while. Heck, they had been hurting this whole time. He had just been ignoring it. Adrenaline probably had something to do with it as well.

Mabel made a squeaking noise when she saw the Shack up ahead. Everyone’s pace picked up, albeit not by much.

Someone was standing outside the house, twisting a baseball cap in his hands nervously. Oh... the handyman.

The young man saw them and beamed with buck teeth, running right up and throwing his arms around Dipper. He seemed to realize something was wrong when absolutely no one reacted.

“Hey, you dudes okay?” Jesus asked, standing up. “There was, like, a lot of explosions or something.” He looked expectantly at Stan. Stan stared blankly back.  
Eventually the handyman’s face became more confused.

“I’ll handle it,” Ford said to the kids. And as they walked up to the porch, Ford quietly and quickly broke the news.

He just hadn’t expected an employee of Stan’s to cry that much.

They hurried to catch up to the children. Dipper quite literally broke down the door, and then gestured at the rest to follow him inside.

The Shack was a complete wreck. Despite the entire town retaining no damage, of course Stanley’s house had stayed extremely broken. Of course.

The staircase was smashed, the walls were falling apart... Ford sucked in a breath as he walked through the doorway. Broken as Stan himself. Mabel’s pet pig followed them inside the house.

Dipper and Mabel each took a hold of one of Stan’s hands, and led him into the living room.

“Hey,” Stanley said quietly, smiling a little. “This is a real nice place ya got here.” A piece of the ceiling fell and crashed into the ground.

“It’s your place, Grunkle Stan,” Dipper told him, as Stan walked into the parlor.

“Don’t you remember?” Mabel whimpered softly. “Even a little?”

“Nope. But this chair hugs my butt like it remembers,” Stan sighed, plopping down into his beloved armchair. Typical Stanley, pretending he was fine for the sake of the children.

Except now he could never be ‘typical Stanley’ ever again.

Oh, it was all Ford’s fault.

He’d been the idiot who summon Bill, and he was supposed to be the one to pay for it.  
Now... Stan was paying the price for Ford’s lifetime of mistakes.  
He would never exist again. Thanks to Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world.

Stanford Pines, the man who was such a mistake he caused his own brother’s death.

Ford reminded himself not to cry in front of the kids. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes beginning to sting.

Stan looked at the four of them standing hopelessly in a line, confused at why everyone was staring.

“Hey, why the long faces? You look like you’re at someone’s funeral!” He sent a side-eye at the handyman, who he must have missed earlier.  
“Who’s the big guy crying in the corner?” Stanley staged whispered. 

Jesus burst into tears and turned around, pulling his hat over his eyes.

Do NOT cry in front of the children, Ford reminded himself.

“We saved the world, but what’s the point?” Dipper mumbled. “Grunkle Stan’s not himself anymore.”

Ford thought long and hard, and he realized that... no. He couldn’t imagine a world without Stan.

A world without his brother.

Ford rubbed the spot on the back of his head harder. He would not cry in front of the children.

“There’s gotta be something we can do to jog his memory!” Mabel pleaded with tears eyes. Ford couldn’t stand seeing his niece like this.

“There isn’t,” he mumbled, “I’m sorry. Stan’s gone.”

“I KNOW my Grunkle is in there somewhere!” The girl snapped, standing and pointing dramatically.

As she talked and searched the room and found her scrapbook, Ford felt something like... a sliver of hope enter his chest.

But it couldn’t be true.

It couldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> This might be discontinued honestly? I’m just posting all the stuff that was in my folders


End file.
